


Dead Light

by darlathecyborgpluviophile



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, World of Ruin, gen or slash? you decide!, zine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25266751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlathecyborgpluviophile/pseuds/darlathecyborgpluviophile
Summary: Descending the remaining stairs, she steadies herself. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Paw-Paw taught her better than to act like this, panicking at the smallest things. What would he say, if he were still here?Gods, she’s so…tired of herself.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Cindy Aurum
Kudos: 15





	Dead Light

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a zine fic, but it seems the project is dead by now, so here it is. I'd still like to see it published though, so the mods can @ me if they want this taken down.
> 
> Also: this fic can be read as either platonic or romantic, as I genuinely couldn't decide. Enjoy!
> 
> twitter: @darlathecyborg

The light flickers.

Cindy’s heartbeat spikes and she thrusts herself up from a restless sleep, only to see the lamp fixture in the ceiling of her attic room sputter and spit gold, dying out with a fizzle.

Her chest heaves, her heart pounding so hard that it hurts. Her hair is all frizzy, hanging over her eyes; out of muscle memory she reaches for the metal wrench leaning against her bedside table, hefting the solid thing into her lap easily with a not-insignificant amount of adrenalin. She manages to sweep her curls into something more manageable, and finally with a full range of vision she sees that light from the hallway is still bleeding into her dark room from under the door.

The only sound for a minute is that of her own heavy breathing, and her futile attempts to control it.

 _Okay_. Okay. It’s okay. It’s just her room, then. Probably. Hopefully.

On the floor beside the bed are also a pair of boots that she slips into with practiced ease. It takes mere moments to tighten and tie the laces, then pull her Hammerhead jacket out of the closet to tug over her pajamas, retrieve the wrench and exit the bedroom.

Sure enough, there’s plenty of light in the hallway outside. If she looks down to the opposite end of the stairs, the light from their tiny kitchen is on, too. She takes a few steps down towards the door to Prompto’s room and lifts her hand to knock and see if he’s okay – only she hesitates, knowing how little sleep he tends to get. If it’s really just her room that’s having a problem, she’d rather not disturb him for nothing.

Right. In that case, the lightbulb probably just needs replacing.

Cindy runs a hand through her hair once more, encountering tangles and sweaty roots along the way, and starts down the rickety attic stairs.

The garage, thank the Gods, looks the same as she left it before going to bed. Halfway down the stairs, a pull cord dangles. She uses it to turn on the bare lightbulb above her, and she is relieved to discover that still works too. Outside, the gigantic floodlights set up around Hammerhead’s perimeter glare through the tiny windows of the garage door. That’s what is truly important: everyone on the property is still safe. Nothing has gone hugely wrong.

Descending the remaining stairs, she steadies herself. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Paw-Paw taught her better than to act like this, panicking at the smallest things. What would he say, if he were still here?

Gods, she’s so…tired of herself.

Once upon a time, the lightbulbs were tucked away in one of the many supplies drawers that line the walls of the garage; with the advent of the apocalypse, they’ve become nomads of the Hammerhead property, strewn about and used everywhere they can fit. The ones that match the light fixture in her room are fairly common, and the last she remembers seeing of them was somewhere near Prompto’s worktable.

The boy –they’re not _that_ far apart in age, it’s just a nickname that’s only stuck worse in Cindy’s mind over the course of the Night – has an entire corner of the garage to himself. He collects things like a magpie. Bits of Imperial tech; trinkets; experimental bullets for his hunts; and spools of film clutter up the shelves and spill out of the drawers in that area. Atop his table always lies some gun or Niff weapon pulled apart to reveal its intricate inner workings.

And there, on the very far edge of his table, a cardboard box of lightbulbs sits open, nearly teetering.

Cindy navigates her way to it, maneuvering around crates of potions and hunks of broken machinery, when suddenly a blur of blonde pops up from under the desk, startling the life nearly out of her for the second time tonight.

“Found it!” Prompto says with a triumphant grin on his face, which fades quickly as he notices her standing five feet in front of him, hands on her heart. “Oh shit, Cindy. Are you okay?”

“Fine, darlin’, fine,” she says, attempting to catch her breath. “Y’just scared me is all!”

“Oh, sorry…” Prompto says, deflating a little. His beaming look has turned into an anxious half-smile.

“Yer good,” Cindy laughs awkwardly, “yer good.” The question is on his face even before he asks it, so she answers while reaching for the box of lightbulbs: “The light in my room’s gone. Woke me up, damn thing.”

“A-ah! Yeah. Totally understandable.” He fidgets with the object he retrieved from under the work desk, a glittering gem likely for weapon augmentation. His eyes dart around, as if he knows what she might ask next.

“What’re you doin’ up so early, hun?” she says, and the discomfort that follows is not in the asking, but the answering. Case in point, Prompto winces.

“I. Uh.” He’s never gotten around his habit of stuttering around her, and now it’s just been made worse. “I was up already. Thought I might as well get some work done.” He scratches the back of his head.

It’s not a real answer, of that she’s sure; but if he wants to tell her the truth, he’ll come clean eventually. The boy is nothing if not loyal.

Cindy redirects her attention to the box of lightbulbs, retrieving one for her fixture upstairs.

“Well…wanna come help a girl out?” she asks, wiggling it.

Back in her room, the light from the attic hallway is barely enough to work. Prompto had the foresight to bring a stepladder up with him, which helps more than standing on the edge of her bed and awkwardly trying to reach the dead light ever would. He spots her while she’s replacing it, too. There’s a strange, comforting companionship in their mutual concentration, the focus that comes with having a job that needs to get done, and being able to do it well. It’s a feeling she’s used to when it comes to Paw-Paw, but is a new experience with this nervous fella below her.

But the job, in the end, is simple enough.

“Try turnin’ it on now,” she says. Prompto dutifully flips the switch set into the wall by her door and sure enough, the light above them hums to life. He lets out a sigh of relief, and her laugher echoes similarly.

“Thank ya kindly for the help,” she says, her laughter starting to taper off.

“No problem,” Prompto says, “Any time.”

Exhaustion catches up to her, trickling thick and sludgy through her body like motor oil. She runs a hand through her curls, still messy from bedhead, and closes her eyes. “Should probably get some more shuteye ‘fore we open the door back up to hunters. Are you gonna be –”

When they open again, she doesn’t see the resilient Kingsglaive she’s been getting to know since the Night fell, strong and bubbly and brave – she sees the boy she so affectionately refers to him as, with his shoulders hunched and his eyes wide, perched on the knife’s edge of anxiety. And suddenly, she knows exactly why he’s up this early.

A switch flicks in her brain.

“We’re gon’ need some more muscle today, aren’t we?” she asks out loud.

*

Cindy likes to solve problems.

Ever since a wrench was first placed in her hand after a short lifetime of terror and fear, she’s been working. Working to help folks stranded on the side of the road. Working to get supplies to hunters. Working to live up to Paw-Paw’s expectations, of the bright girl she knows she can be.

The old lawn chairs he used to favor haven’t been brought out since the darkness hit, but here she is, dragging them out now. Prompto stands in the mouth of the garage watching her, the quilt from her bed wrapped around his shoulders. It’s cold out here, and when she’s done moving them, still he remains frozen to the spot, a spiracorn in headlights.

It’s a frustrating reaction, initially – until she sucks in a deep breath of chilly Night air, grasps his hand where it hangs limp by his side, and gently pulls him to the chairs.

“You okay?” she asks, sitting sideways on the long leg rest of hers.

“Sorry,” Prompto mutters, “sorry. Just. Still trying to wake up, y’know?”

Awful nights of her own, where she’s woken up crying for her long-dead parents, or for the things that rowdy hunters have stolen from her, echo silently through her memories. For the second time, Cindy reaches out and takes his hand.

“You betcha,” she says, quietly.

There’s a lump in Prompto’s throat – she watches as his Adam’s apple bobs a few times, swallowing.

“You help a lot. With the nightmares.” He closes his eyes, flinching back slightly, as if expecting punishment. “Thanks. For that.”

The words fill her with warmth, despite the cold, despite the circumstances. Cindy moves from her chair to Prompto’s, settling in close to his side, and wraps her arms around his quilt-draped form.

“You’re okay,” she says. “You’re okay.”

She feels a weight on the crown of her head, him settling on top of hers, and Cindy can’t help but smile.

*

(An hour later, the muscle arrives.

Aranea finds them like that, curled together on a lawn chair, both sleeping peacefully. She smirks, rolls her eyes, and strides inside the garage to make coffee for three.)


End file.
